by Kyle Onstott
“Legionaries of Rome, and now I can include my Praetorians in that name, we are a nation of young men. Old age has no place in our Empire. You are young and so am I. Shall we rule Rome or shall we allow these old ones to do it in our place? I say let us do it ourselves. What say you?”
There was little love lost between the army and the Senate. For years the greedy senators had been cutting the pay of the army, supplying them with mouldy meal and rotten meat, issuing shoddy uniforms and inferior armor. The smoldering hatred of centuries burst forth.
“Away with them, let them quit Rome. Ave Caesar!”
Antoninus spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Caesar has spoken, August Fathers, and so has the army. Yet I do not want you to feel that you are leaving Rome in disgrace or under any condemnation. You will retire to your country estates, but each one of you will have the choice of one hundred prime slaves or the value thereof. Also you shall have my gratitude, and from time to time I shall call on you individually to come to Rome and confer with me. Each man that is so called will receive a stipend of honor commensurate with his rank and ability.”
He could afford to smile at them.
“And you shall have my deep gratitude for all you have done for Rome. To show you further honor, I order a maniple of Praetorians to attend each of you at your home tomorrow, exactly at noon. They will escort you to the city gates, and there a maniple of soldiers from the Alban Legion will escort you to your homes in the country.”
Although they realized that the guard was primarily to arrest them rather than do them honor, they were somewhat mollified by the substantial offer of the hundred slaves, and even more by the fact that their heads were still on their shoulders. They slumped back in their seats, confident that their canny minds, long schooled in the devious ways of politics would soon dispense with this callow upstart who called himself Caesar and had the temerity to dismiss the Senate itself.
The voice of a Praetorian called out from the ranks.
“And now, we would have Caesar answer some of our questions.”
Antoninus picked out the man who had spoken—a Tribune with a sullen look on his handsome face.
“Step forward, Tribune, and state your name.”
The guard showed no hesitancy in proclaiming himself.
“Africanus Germanicus Agrippa.”
“A combination of names which would seem honorable as well as geographical. You say you would have Caesar answer some questions? Know you not that Caesar is not in the habit of answering questions? Caesar asks them. And Caesar asks you now if you value your life.”
Mehercule! Antoninus thought, I could not order his death, even if he had a sword uplifted to strike me. He is too handsome!
“Fear not, Agrippa, Caesar will not harm you.’’
“But surely Caesar would like to know what complaints some of his Praetorians might have.”
“Surely Caesar would wonder why his Praetorians might have any complaints. Do they?”
“Yes, Great Caesar, serious ones—so serious that they have started to sow the seeds of revolution in the camp in favor of your son and heir, Alexander.”
There were a few scattered shouts of “Ave Caesar,” and Mamaea anxiously pushed Alexander to his feet that he might acknowledge them but before he could stumble to the front of the platform, Antoninus barred his way.
“Back to your seat, whelp,” he muttered, “defy me not today, or you will never return to Rome tonight.”
Alexander retreated and slunk down in his chair.
“Revolution is not a pleasant word to use before Caesar, Tribune Agrippa,” Antoninus again addressed the Praetorian. “But as you have brought the word out into the open, let us discuss it. Today is a day of frankness. Speak, Tribune, and for the first time in the history of Rome, Caesar gives a man permission to speak whatever words he desires. You will not be punished for any statements you make here today. I shall appreciate your honesty. Come nearer, man, that we need not shout at each other like hawkers in the Forum. The August Fathers, who are already contemplating the delights of retirement, will make way for you.”
The crowd parted and even the disgruntled senators in the first row grudgingly inched their chairs so that the Tribune might pass through. He stood directly beneath Antoninus, his stance fearless, his feet wide apart, his crested helmet crooked under one arm so that the full light of the sun fell on his face.
He was indeed handsome with the stem beauty of a male animal—a transcending masculinity that reminded Antoninus of the rare black panthers he had seen in the arena. Not since the day that Hierocles had reached out to steady him in his procession into Rome, or since he had seen the moon-dappled Zoticus walk across the temple courtyard, had Antoninus been so completely bewitched. Suddenly he desired him and with his desire he was no longer Caesar.
“Begin, Tribune Agrippa.” Antoninus leaned forward a little and smiled, as if to create a sense of intimacy between them and bring them closer together. “I would like to hear your opinion of me, Tribune, and if you will be frank, I shall promise you immunity.” He hesitated, looking down into the man’s eyes, “Perhaps even more.”
“I desire nothing from Caesar except that he listen to my words, but despite his pledge of immunity I scarcely dare speak, although I have been chosen spokesman for hundreds of my companions.”
“You have permission to speak. Through you I would learn how to rule Rome better. Proceed, Tribune.”
“Then I would begin first by condemning your religion, secondly by criticizing your morals, and thirdly by censuring your companions.”
“Which would leave me very little of life,” Antoninus was smiling still, “because I believe in my religion, I have no desire to change my morals, and I am devoted to my friends. But; go on, Tribune, let Caesar hear why you disapprove of him, his life, his god and his companions.”
Agrippa walked a half step nearer so near that by reaching up his hand, he could have touched the tips of Antoninus’s sandals. “I am a follower of Mithras, as are many of the soldiers . . .”
“A dour faith, if what I have heard is true. Quite different from the joyous worship of Elah-ga-baal.”
“The followers of Mithras believe in chastity. We practice it ourselves and we would that our Emperor practiced it.”
“Chastity? It is a word with which I am little acquainted. My religion does not enforce it nor approve it.”
“Then we would have you give up your religion and become a follower of ours. But no man comes to Mithras unless he comes in his own heart and it is difficult to compel a man to change his religion. So we would have you relinquish the office of High Priest of Elah-ga-baal, and if you insist on practicing your religion do it in private arid not in public. It is hardly fitting for Rome’s Caesar to dance round the altars of any god.”
Antoninus stared at the man beneath him. He was well aware of the rapid growth of the austere cult of Mithras, particularly among the soldiers. Mithras, like Elah-ga-baal, was a man’s god but Mithras, unlike the Syrian Sun God, demanded absolute chastity from his worshippers. Antoninus could not relinquish his faith in his god—had not Elah-ga-baal triumphed in him today?—but he could accede to relinquishing the priesthood. He had already lost interest in its pageantry and mummery. If he must choose between the two he preferred to be Caesar than High Priest.
“Then you desire that I retire as High Priest?” He looked over the Tribune’s head, “And how many others feel that I should devote more of my time to government and less to religion?”
There was a mighty shout. Elah-ga-baal had never been popular in Rome.
“I grant your request, Tribune. I shall no longer serve as High Priest, but I shall not close the Temple of Elah-ga-baal. However, that you may know I shall devote no more time to religion, I appoint the Consul Alexander as Pontifex Maximus.” He disposed of the exalted office and his cousin with a backward wave of his hand. “Are you satisfied, Tribune?”
“My gratitude
, Great Caesar, to which is added that of many others.”
Antoninus felt he was winning the man, slowly perhaps, but he had made a beginning. Already the eyes of the Tribune had softened.
“I am not difficult to deal with, Tribune. We have amicably settled one of your grievances and now to the second, which I am sure is far more serious—my morals.”
Agrippa hesitated. He was on dangerous ground. He had a violent disgust, which had grown into a deep hatred, for the youth he was addressing and yet that youth was Caesar—for the moment all powerful. He must choose his words carefully.
“As a man cannot always change his faith in god, so he cannot change his nature. We do not condemn you for what you are, Great Caesar,” Agrippa was trying bard to hide the fact that he was lying blatantly, “but we wish . . .”
“That I might be more discreet.” Antoninus was still smiling. “In that I agree with you. Perhaps if I had had you as my mentor I could more easily mend my ways. But, believe me, Tribune, another has already pointed it out to me,” he glanced briefly at Hierocles,” and from now on, I promise you, I shall be Caesar. Is that what you desire?”
Again a shout arose from the soldiers, but few of the Palace Guard joined with the Praetorians and only a smattering of the legionaries.
“We seem to have reached an agreement on two points without too much difficulty,” Antoninus nodded gravely. “And now the third—my friends and associates. Shall we discuss them?”
Agrippa felt that the worst was over. Now he was on safer ground.
“The Palace Guard must go. They have usurped the place of the Praetorians. It is our ancient duty to guard Caesar.”
“Then guard him!” For the first time Antoninus let an edge of anger sharpen his words. “The Palace Guards are Priests of Elah-ga-baal, recruited for duty at the palace because I could not rely on you. If you were faithful to me, I would send the Palace Guards back to the temple. Can I be sure?”
“We will guard you with our lives, Great Caesar.” The Praetorians shouted their answer to him.
“And dismiss Gordius from Praefect of the Night Watch,” Agrippa was enumerating on his fingers, “and Eubulus as Praefect, Quadratus from the post of Sustenances, Maxentius as Collector of Customs and Hellenus as Praefect of the Palace. These men, Great Caesar, have abused their positions. They are ex-slaves, ill-fitted to preside over your affairs and those of Rome.”
“Gordius has not abused his position,” Antoninus said, “but I will remove him as Praefect. As to the others, I shall accede to your wishes. They will all be replaced, but their retirements shall be honorable and designated by a statue to each in the Forum.”
Another shout hailed his decision.
Agrippa was emboldened by his success. “There yet remains one other,” he began.
“Go no farther.” Antoninus had guessed this last demand and suddenly with the thought of losing Hierocles, his desire for the man below him vanished. “In one thing and in one thing only I shall not comply. Hierocles remains with me and retains the title of Caesar.” He walked backwards a few steps and grasped Hierocles by the shoulder, pulling him up and bringing him to the front of the platform. “Behold a man who loves Rome and Rome’s Caesar. Hadrian was not criticized for his love for Antinous and Antinous sacrificed his life for Hadrian. So would this man gladly sacrifice his life for me. For the little that is good in Caesar today, you can thank him. It is he who has guided me and led me away from my former ways. Do not voice the words that would demand I dispense with him for I will not answer that demand. In all else I shall either comply or compromise but not in this. So . . . ask it not and I shall not need to refuse you. The Caesar Hierocles remains at my right hand.”
“And in your right hand,” a Praetorian sniggered, but Antoninus had seen the speaker.
“Tribune Agrippa!” Antoninus had again become Caesar. “Arrest that man!”
“Gladly, Great Caesar.” The Tribune’s sense of fairness overcame his dislike of Antoninus.
“Give him thirty lashes and read him out of the Guards.”
“I shall personally give him the thirty lashes and after that it will not be necessary to read him out. He will be dead. Today we have met on common ground, Great Caesar. You have com plied with our demands and we will comply with yours. We are satisfied.”
Antoninus spread his arms wide and waited. For a long minute he stood there and the response did not come, then it started, led by the legionaries, augmented by the common citizens, swelled by the Palace Guard and finally bellowed out by the Praetorians.
“Ave Caesar!”
Antoninus dropped his arms and one encircled Hierocles’s shoulders. Agrippa retreated into the anonymity of the cheering mob to where the luckless Praetorian stood, securely held by two guards.
“Ave Caesar!” Again it rang out.
Hierocles dropped to his knees. So did Soaemias and then Julia Maesa.
“Ave Caesar!”
Mamaea pushed the stubborn Alexander down and managed to find her own place on the floor beside him.
“Ave Caesar!”
Antoninus turned and looked down at Hierocles. Slowly and almost imperceptibly one eye closed and he whispered.
“And what do you think now of your little Antonine?”
“Ave Caesar!” Hierocles shouted as if to drown the rest.
24
The return to Rome was something in the manner of a triumph, heralded by cornets and trumpets and with Mamaea and Alexander being figuratively dragged by the conqueror’s chariot, even though they rode in litters. Julia Maesa, always on the winning side, had abandoned them immediately and now cast her Jot in with the victor, Antoninus. Where only the day before she had courted Mamaea and Alexander, she was now all affection for Antoninus and Soaemias. But Soaemias saw nothing else but the glabrous limbs of Aegenax who rode with her in her litter with the curtains closed. He had suddenly become a personage in Rome, both from his elevation to the highest hierarchy of the Emperor’s religion and from his status-designate as the Augusta’s new lover, for it was apparent to all from the languishing looks and the straying hands of the Augusta that young Ahenobarbus had already been displaced and forgotten.
Antoninus and Hierocles, still in their soiled tunics, reclined on the silken cushions of the imperial litter, speaking but little on their return to Rome from the camp. Hierocles had been pleased and more than astonished at the Antonine’s wily diplomacy in seizing the situation by the horns, implicating Comazon irrevocably on his side, winning the confidence of the soldiers, meeting the demands of the Praetorians halfway and—his greatest stroke of all—dismissing the Senate. The painted Syrian priestling had suddenly grown in stature and had become Caesar. Hierocles was proud of him.
Gordius, still in his military uniform, his handsome face grimly set, rode beside the litter. Antoninus’s quick dismissal of him as Praefect of the Night Watch had hurt and puzzled him but it had not changed his loyalties to the two inside the litter. He was somewhat reassured when Antoninus parted the litter curtains and beckoned him to ride closer.
“I have not abandoned you dear and good Gordius.” Antoninus put his fingers on his lips secretively. “There are greater things than being a mere Praefect. Attend us when we arrive in Rome. I have business—important business—for you to attend to.”
It was dusk when they entered the city and the lamps were lighted in their apartments when they arrived. Cleander, who seemed to have heard the news already, was in attendance and when Antoninus entered with Hierocles and Gordius, the slave, who had always treated his master with an easy familiarity and faint respect, now fell on his knees.
“Ave Caesar!”
“Up, bitch.” Antoninus pushed him over backwards into a sprawling tangle of arms and legs. “I’ve had that shouted in my ears so often today that I tire of it.”
“And yet how you love it,” Hierocles added, looking at Antoninus with pride.
“Not as much as I love you,” Antoninus was quick to add. �
�That Agrippa was ready to demand that I abandon you. That Agrippa . . .” Antoninus’s words trailed off as he recalled the almost feral beauty of the Tribune.
“Handsome, wasn’t he?” Hierocles knew Antoninus so well he could follow the capricious wanderings of his thoughts. He had detected that certain unctuous tone in Antoninus’s voice when he had been speaking with the man—a tone Antoninus unconsciously adopted when be was on the make, but he had rejected the idea and rejoiced in the change in Antoninus when Agrippa had demanded his banishment.
“Jealous, as usual?” Antoninus’s finger touched Hierocles’s cheek as he turned to Cleander. “If you’ve stopped hailing Caesar, get yourself down to the kitchen and hail the cooks. Tell them that there are three starving men up here—yes, bitch, I said men—and we want something to eat. I still have the taste of the Praetorians’ meat in my mouth.”